


The Right Thing

by Alliterative_Albatross



Category: We Can Be Heroes (2020)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Body Dysphoria, Body Worship, Double Agents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Pedro Pascal - Freeform, Post-Canon Fix-It, Pregnancy, Presumed Dead, Slice of Life, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:21:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: Taking Marcus Moreno captive is a little more than you'd bargained for.
Relationships: Marcus Moreno x Reader, marcus moreno x you, reader x marcus moreno, you x marcus moreno
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49





	The Right Thing

You size up the Heroics headquarters through your binocs. The building is gaudy and ridiculous, and you wonder again just what kind of architect designed this thing. You’ve already got the schematics memorized, along with the schedule and abilities of everybody on the security detail. This is one last look, just as a precaution.

“I’m coming for you, Miracle Guy.”

* * *

Breaking into Miracle Guy’s office is frightfully simple. Even with your mask on, nobody spares you a second glance, but still, there’s something about the vague familiarity of the corridors that makes you uneasy, like you’ve dreamed this before.

You grimace. You can feel a migraine coming on.

Miracle Guy’s office is surprisingly clean. Somehow, you’d expected more clutter - it would certainly make your job easier. You take a quick look around, shuffling through the filing cabinets, running your fingers beneath the desk to check for trap doors and secret compartments. There are none.

Disappointing.

Still, this is a reconnaissance mission, and you have a job to do. You hope that Miracle Guy is a man of hidden depths, otherwise, stage one of the infiltration is a flop.

On the second sweep, you notice the pictures. There are two, each in a simple silver frame, situated incongruously at opposite corners of the desk.

Curious, you pick up the first. A young girl frowns into the camera, clearly disgusted with having her picture taken. She has dark hair and eyes, and somehow, you just know that she’s clever, with a wry sense of humor and a knack for seeing other perspectives.

Something jangles in the back of your mind, some primal, gut instinct that you’re always better off listening to.

Doesn’t Miracle Guy have a son?

Your head throbs, a subtle tell-tale pressure building behind your eyes, and you shake it away,scanning the office again. You’d assumed just like the rest of the world that after Marcus Moreno’s early retirement, Miracle Guy had stepped up as head of the Heroics. He certainly has the social media presence to suggest so.

But…

You look down at the photograph in your hand.

This is Moreno’s daughter. You’re not sure how you know,you just do.

Uneasiness spikes a thrill down your spine. Your breath hitches, your head spasms.

If Moreno has come out of retirement, that changes everything.

_“Marcus Moreno is a dangerous man, my dear,” the Boss had warned you time and time again. “Do not underestimate him, and never, ever engage him alone.”_

Well, then. Game on.

You drop the photograph into your black duffle bag, reaching for the second frame. Moreno keeps his private business very private - it’s hard to dig up information on him, not that you’ve tried too hard.

It’s a wedding photo.

Weird. You hadn’t realized that Moreno was married.

Behind you, the office door swings open.

* * *

Taking Moreno had been all too easy.

The ridiculous man had stood in the doorway for all of two seconds, blinking as if he’d been trying to place you. It wasn’t until he’d noticed the picture frame in your hand that you’d gotten any reaction. Then, Moreno had darted forward angrily, unleashing his katanas from behind his shoulders.

You hadn’t even let him complete the motion. A good operative knows when to improvise, and you’d seen enough newsreels featuring Moreno to know that you didn’t have a prayer of beating him in a fair fight. Unwilling to compromise the mission, you’d sprung forward, reaching into your belt for the pre-filled syringe you keep available for emergencies such as these. All of the powers in the world are no match for a ketamine dart to the jugular.

Lights out, Moreno.

Sure, you could have just left him gasping for breath on the office floor, but ketamine, especially in such large quantities, takes a long time to wear off. Likely, somebody would have found him there. Besides, he’d already seen you. Stealth was no longer an option.

It was an easy choice to just bring Moreno back with you. What better opportunity to learn about the lauded Hero of the Heroics than to study the man himself?

Getting him out of the building without raising suspicion had been a little tricky, but you’re nothing if not resourceful.

Now, he’s sprawled out on a rickety cot in the single tiny holding cell at the corner your basement. The Boss gives you plenty of autonomy to do as you please - you’re his most trusted operative. Sure, you’re bending the rules a little, but nobody needs to know.

Yet.

You’ll report in once you have something juicy to report.

Moreno stirs, groaning a little, and something about the sound tugs uncomfortably in your chest. Lying here in the dim single-bulb light, Marcus Moreno doesn’t look like a superhero. He just looks like a regular guy.

Somebody’s husband. Somebody’s dad.

You kick yourself hard for that thought and force yourself to study him in a more clinical light. He’s wearing dark clothes - cargo pants, combat boots, and a simple black t-shirt. He’d been unarmed except for his katanas, which you’d promptly confiscated because you aren’t stupid. You’d slapped him with some binding cuffs formulated specifically to neutralize Heroics - his powers are contained, for now. A tech scan had revealed a radio tracker and communication device in his watch. You’d taken care of that without too much trouble, tossing the watch into the back window of a shuttle on your way out of headquarters.

Closer inspection reveals a simple wedding band on his left hand, some dark material that glitters even in the dingy light. You don’t automatically recognize it.

Somehow, you are reluctant to remove that ring.

Moreno shifts again, rolling onto his side and tucking his hands under his cheek.

He’s drooling.

Cute, you find yourself smirking. You press the thought back, promising yourself that it had been sarcasm. The drugs must be wearing off. This looks a lot more like natural sleep.

Perfect.

You kneel down next to him, knowing that he’ll still be pretty loopy. Ketamine is a hallucinogen as well as a sedative, so any information you glean from him in this state will have to be carefully vetted.

Still, it’s worth an attempt.

“Where is the data chip?” you hiss into Moreno’s ear.

His brow furrows comically. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t open his eyes.

“Moreno,” you bark, raising your voice in an attempt to catch his attention. “I need you to tell me about the data chip.”

“Whaaaa??” he murmurs. “Baby, no… come… come here.” He reaches for your hand, and you let him pull you closer. His skin is warm, fingers surprisingly strong as he grips you tightly.

“Marcus,” you say softly, deciding to try a different tack. “Hey, Marcus. Listen to me. I need you to tell me where the chip is.”

“Whaazzit matter?” he slurs, tucking your hand under his chin. You can feel his breath on your skin. “S’yours, anyway.” He sighs contentedly. “S’all yours, baby. “

“What’s mine?”

“Mmm,” Moreno sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Missed this. Missed you.”

You pull back as if burned, sparks flaring white-hot behind your eyes.

Moreno keens at the loss of contact, reaching clumsily for your fingers. “Don’t go,” he begs, sounding for all the world like he knows what he’s asking.

Blinding pain blazes between your brows, and you stumble from the cell, barely remembering to lock the door behind you.

You’ll try again later.

* * *

When you return in two hours, Moreno is pacing agitatedly in his cell.

He whirls at the sound of your footsteps. “What is this?” he hisses angrily. “What do you want?”

“I want the chip,” you reply calmly. You’d been prepared for his anger. It amuses you.

Moreno startles violently at your answer, tensing so hard that a muscle twitches in his jaw.

Ah.

You laugh mirthlessly, pleased with how simple he’s making this. You’d thought the tells of the great Marcus Moreno would be much more subtle than that.

Moreno gathers himself, looking warily up at you. “What chip?” he counters evenly, as if he’d not just jumped out of his skin at the sound of your voice.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Moreno,” you retort, pressing against the cool metal bars that contain him. It feels nice. Your head is aching, and your patience is wearing thin. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Moreno tilts his head, looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. “Take off the mask,” he proposes softly, “and we’ll talk.”

“You forget where you are, Moreno, if you think you can make the offers here.” You fold your arms across your chest, cock your hip in a stance that demands respect. “The chip. I won’t ask nicely again.”

Moreno shrugs at you, crossing his arms nonchalantly across his chest. You can see, though, that he’s tense, muscles primed to the point of stiffness. His jaw is set, his hands clenched in tight fists.

It’s time to apply a little pressure. “What would your daughter, think, Moreno, if I told her that Daddy would rather pace in a cell like an animal than help advance society for the good of mankind?”

Now that draws a reaction. Moreno lunges forward, face contorted into a snarl. “You leave her out of this. She’s just a kid.”

“That’s up to you,” you glance down at your watch for show, swallowing back guilt. Moreno is a good father, and he’s right, his daughter is just a child. That fact bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

You really don’t want to threaten his family like this.

You clear your throat, reminding yourself of the Boss, of your mission. “Three minutes, Moreno. Time’s a wasting.”

Moreno moves closer, breathing heavily, looking baffled, almost unhinged. “Take it off,” he whispers. “Please.”

It’s the please that does it. Moreno’s voice is shattered, his face an expression of raw befuddlement, and you’re tossing the mask aside before you’re even aware of your decision to do so.

Moreno draws a sharp breath and backs away, all of the blood draining from his face.

Automatically, your fingers rise to hide the long, twisted scar that mars the right side of your body. It tracks from your temple, down your jawline, and into your shirt, gnarled and ugly. Indignation flares in you, along with burning shame. You’re still not used to seeing your reflection, not even a year after the accident.

You realize quickly, though, that Moreno isn’t just reacting to your disfigurement. Something else is going on. He’s stumbled clear to the far side of the cell, leaning heavily against the wall, staring at you with wide, shocked eyes.

“No, no, no, no,” he’s murmuring over and over again. “No way. It can’t be. This is not happening. This is not real.”

“What’s not real, Moreno?” You can’t quite keep the annoyance from your tone. This is not how this conversation was supposed to go.

Moreno scrubs his palm over his face, rubbing at his eyes with a force that must have him seeing sparks. “You,” he whines, his voice cracking. “You died. You’re dead.”

“Funny,” you answer, assuming that some of the drug must still be on board. It’s not unheard of. “I don’t remember doing that.”

Moreno huffs a wild laugh. “But I saw it. I watched, I saw the…” he stumbles over the words, clearly overcome with emotion. “Your shuttle, baby, it went up in flames.” His voice breaks, and he hides his face in trembling hands, voice muffled as he continues, “There was nothing left, no body, nothing to identify…”

What the heck?

“Oh my god,” Moreno breathes, realization dawning on him. “There was nothing left. Oh my god.” He lifts his gaze, staring at you with an unrestrained longing that’s just painful to witness. “Babe -” he starts, stepping forward with his arms outstretched.

“Hold up,” you raise a hand, and he falls silent, still gaping at you like a fish out of water. “I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here.”

Moreno freezes. You think he’s even stopped breathing.

“We’ve never met.”

Moreno blinks up at you through wet eyes. “You don’t remember?” He looks _gutted._

“Nope,” you inform him coldly. “And I’m thinking that you don’t, either. You had a huge dose of ketamine, Moreno. Looks like it’s still hanging on.”

“No, no, no.” He’s moved closer, murmuring a name you don’t recognize. “Baby, please. Listen to me. Something’s happened to your memories. Something terrible.” His hands wrap around the bars of his little prison, his knuckles white with tension. He’s practically shaking with it.

“You’re my wife.”

You gasp as white hot pain flares behind your eyes. You double over, pressing your hand to your forehead with a low hiss.

Moreno lurches forward, straining at the bars to reach for you. “Baby?”

“I am not your baby,’ you spit, flinching from his hand as if it’s a venomous snake. God, you’d thought you finally had this migraine under control.

“Wait, wait. Please,” he calls desperately as you hurry away. “The photograph. Look at the photograph!”

You huff, reaching into your pocket for another packet of BC powder.

Marcus Moreno is insane.

* * *

“What about Missy?” Moreno asks quietly the next time you see him.

“Missy?”

You have the sudden impression of a squalling, wet bundle being pressed to your breast, of strong, warm arms encircling you from behind, of a soft kiss pressed to your temple, of tears and overwhelming pressure-pain and and joy so intense that it threatens to burst your chest open.

Your head throbs hard, a flash of lightning blinding your vision. You clench your eyes shut against it, focusing on your training, on the mission, on breathing in and out, in and out.

“What about her?” you manage after a moment.

Moreno moves toward you, an expression of soft concern on his face. “How long have you been having headaches?”

The pain behind your eyes spikes at his voice.

“Baby,” he says gently. He looks at you like he’s just dying to pull you into his arms, like his heart is breaking more with every inch of space between you.

“A little over a year, I think,” you answer automatically. The fact that _Marcus Moreno is worried for you_ just boggles the mind, pulls the honesty right out of you. “The doctors aren’t sure what’s causing them.”

Sadness flickers in Moreno’s gaze, and he nods tersely, like you’ve just confirmed something for him. 

“You should really take a look at that photograph,” he suggests again.

* * *

Feeling supremely silly, you fish the wedding photograph from your black duffle bag. 

You recognize Moreno instantly. Same dark eyes behind the same thick-rimmed glasses, the same familiar, goofy grin.

Wait, how can you recognize that grin? You’ve never seen Moreno smile.

He’s holding up a champaign bottle behind a woman dressed in white lace, laughing mischievously. The photographer had timed it perfectly - the cork is just bursting from the bottle, champaign spewing a glistening fountain over the scene. A sprawling lake glitters in the sunrise behind them.

Something cold unfurls in your chest as your gaze shifts to the woman in the photo.

Her eyes are brighter than you’ve seen them, younger. Her hair is longer, her face a little slimmer. No ugly scar mars her cheek. She’s smiling up at Moreno, laughing, joyful as he showers them both in sticky champaign.

She is undeniably you.

 _Colorado,_ your brain supplies suddenly. _Scrimping every penny for the perfect elopement, an early morning hike in the San Jaun mountains, just a photographer and your minister and Abuela there to witness the day. Afterward, you’d jumped into the lake on a whim, dress and all, dragging Marc in behind you. It was freezing, a mistake you regretted throughout the entire two hour hike back down the mountain, but so, so worth it in the end. The photos were incredible, the memories irreplaceable._

The answering flash of pain that accompanies the recollection is enough to send you to your knees.

* * *

“I looked at your photo.”

Moreno’s face snaps up, his expression carefully contained. “You did?”

You lean against the bars of his cell, biting back the spike of sympathy that rises in you at those puppy dog eyes. “Yeah, I did. What are you trying to pull, Moreno?”

It’s not an accusation, not anymore. It’s weariness. You’re tired. You’re confused. Your head hurts. Strangely enough, you just want to fall into Moreno’s arms and bury your face the hollow of his throat, and that instinct alone unearths a whole barrage of questions and emotions that you are thoroughly unprepared to deal with.

So you fall back on your age-old coping instinct of callous denial.

Moreno’s expression shutters instantly. “Not a thing,” he says quietly, raising his empty hands and shrugging. “I’m just telling you the truth, because I think you deserve to hear it. That’s all.”

“Truth?” you spit, biting back the overwhelming sense of loss that gapes in your chest. “What, that I’m your dead wife? Pull the other one, Moreno.”

He stares at you for a long time, something resigned and somber in his gaze.“You’re better than this,” he whispers fiercely. He’s so close you can hear him breathing, loud, strained huffs that punctuate the absolute silence of his cell. “I know you are, baby. _I know you.”_

“Better than what?” Since you’d taken your mask off, it’s almost impossible to get a rise out of this man. Things would be so, so much easier if you could hate him, but that’s impossible, now.

“Better than…” He swallows hard, glancing away for a moment. “Better than working for _him.”_

Bitterness. You realize for the first time that you hate your boss. Hate his plans, hate the morals that he’s perfectly willing to sacrifice to watch them play out, hate, hate how his grubby fingers curl against your bare skin as he calls you his _very best operative._

“Well, I wouldn’t know that, would I?” you whisper hoarsely. Your entire world is shifting and realigning, and you feel like you’re reeling, hurling through space with nothing to grab onto, nothing to slow your fall.

Moreno’s shoulders twitch. “Guess not.” He’s still not looking at you.

* * *

You watch Moreno for a long time over the video feed, mulling over your latest conversation. There’s something about the way that Moreno had refused to look at you that reeks of disappointment, something about his honest declaration of, ‘I know you,’ that makes you expect better of yourself.

It stings.

He’s not wrong, either. You can see that now. Working for the Boss sucks. He’s a twisted, soulless megalomanic who will happily eliminate anyone or anything that stands in the way of his quest for power. His promises are hollow, his justifications shaky at best. He cares nothing for the greater good.

Working for him is wrong.

You glance back at Moreno. He’d stopped pacing a while ago. Now, he’s sitting slumped against the stone wall of the cell, his head bowed, elbows resting on knees, thumbs pressed into his temples.

Something tightens in your chest. Everything you know about Moreno suggests that he’s a good man. Heck, he’s proven that. You’ve been terrible to him, holding him captive, taunting him, baiting him with his daughter and his dead wife, but still, he’s been nothing but kind to you. Concerned, even.

There’s nothing at all to suggest that he’s a threat to society. In fact, he looks pretty helpless right now, scrubbing his eyes with his palms, shackles gleaming at his wrists. There’s something broken and forlorn about his posture, and watching him is clawing a hole in you.

You click the laptop shut.

* * *

For lack of anything else to do, you order take-out. Pad Thai is your go-to comfort food, and you could use some comfort right now. Besides, it’s getting late. You’re hungry.

Guiltily, you glance at the clock and decide to order an extra serving for Moreno. He’s been here all day with nothing to eat, too.

Back at the holding cell, you extend the take-out bag as if it’s a peace offering. “Got you something.”

“Oh.” Moreno blinks several times, as if you’ve surprised him. “Thanks.”

You motion him away from the entrance, and he complies easily, backing up against the far wall as you relock the door behind you. He keeps his distance until you hold out the take-out box again, shaking it a little in encouragement.

He inhales sharply as he opens it, his eyes darting up to stare at you, then flickering down at the Pad Thai, then back to you.

God, you’re sick of this. “What?” You meet his gaze evenly as you fish for a shrimp with your plastic spoon.

So many emotions cross his face that you can hardly keep track. Moreno works his lips, frowning as if he’s trying to decide what to say.

You decide to let him mull over it. No reason not to dig in.

You’ve almost forgotten about him when a shuddering little sigh breaks the silence. Moreno is still staring at you like he can’t figure you out. His brow is furrowed, his eyes red-rimmed and narrowed, his gaze intense, like he’s desperate for… _something._

He hasn’t touched his food.

“What?” You ask again with a touch more patience this time. It feels intimate and raw, watching this man openly grieve, like that Pad Thai you’re serving him is a ghost.

“You really don’t remember?” Moreno sets the box aside, drawing his knees to his chest in a gesture that seems almost defensive.

Or protective.

You wrack your aching brain, trying to figure out what you should remember about Pad Thai that would keep Moreno from eating it.

“Oh,” you finally say, a little sheepish. It was pretty stupid of you, ordering shrimp for a complete stranger. “I’m sorry. Do you have allergies?”

Moreno’s face falls. “You know I don’t have allergies,” he answers quietly, still staring at you with that probing expression.

Something about the sheer longing in his gaze gets to you. “I know that _now,”_ you point out, unsure if you’re more frustrated with him or yourself. “Because you just told me.”

The correction comes out a little sharper than you’d intended, but that’s for Moreno’s own good, really. You don’t want him to get the wrong idea.

Moreno presses his lips together. “Right,” he says softly. His eyes are swimming when he looks back up at you, but he still manages a small smile. “Thanks.”

He reaches for his box. The food has long since gone cold.

You eat the rest of your meal in silence.

* * *

That night, you dream. Each scene -each memory - hits you with a white-hot jolt of lightning, like your brain is shattering from the onslaught.

Flash.

_He’s just that nerdy guy who sits at the back of your physics class, a perfect stereotype complete with glasses and a shy smile. But there’s an easy grace to the way he carries himself, and when he compliments you on your mid-term presentation, you ask him for a coffee on the spot._

Flash.

_“So, will I see you again?” he asks with a shy smile._

_“Definitely,” you promise._

_“Good.”_

_Your fingers brush as he takes the empty coffee mug from your hand._

Flash.

_Marcus holds out a battered Black-eyed Susan for you to examine. “It was growing on the green,” he explains, red-faced. “Made me think of you.”_

_You grin and allow him to tuck the flower behind your ear._

Flash.

_“It’s okay if I call you Marc, right?”_

_You’ve never heard anybody refer to Marcus Moreno as ‘Marc,’ but nicknames are practically part of your culture, and it seems to fit him._

_Marc’s answering grin is contagious. “Yeah. I like it.”_

Flash.

_“Oh my god, Marc, this is great!” you gush, shamelessly slurping on a rice noodle. You’re pretty sure this food truck Pad Thai is the best thing you’ve put into your mouth, ever._

_Marc blushes. “Told you so.”_

Flash.

_“Your turn.”_

_Marc whirls, recognizing that impish tone as meaning that you’re up to something. When he sees you grinning devilishly, holding up the little yellow flower for him to see, he shakes his head.It’s amusement, not denial._

_“Sure,” he laughs, knowing that there’s no arguing with you._

_Marcus Moreno parades around campus with your flower in his hair for three full days._

Flash.

_“You hold on tight to this one,_ mijo.” _Mama Moreno winks at the pair of you. “I like her.”_

 _Marc smiles, proudly swings your clasped hands. **“**_ Sí, Mama. _I like her, too.” He drops a kiss on your forehead._

Flash.

_Sneaking up behind him, pinching his butt, watching him jump a mile. When Marc meets your eyes, his grin promises retaliation._

_Flash._

_The heels you’re wearing are just a hair too high for you to be as tipsy as you are, but the weather is mild, and Marc’s hand is a solid weight against the small of your back, and the ice-cream is freakin’ awesome. So you ignore the blister that’s quickly forming on your toe and focus on the scene - the fairy lights, the hum of conversations in the background, Marc’s face smiling down at you as he escorts you down Rainey._

_You ankle wobbles as you stumble over a crack in the concrete, and you overcorrect, pitching forward, ice cream hurling through the air._

Except, it’s isn’t.

_It’s back in Marcus’ hand. He’s holding one half-eaten cone in each fist, eyes soft and worried as he gazes down at you._

_You gape at him, sprained ankle forgotten._

_“Did you just… just…” Words have fled you, but you’re not that drunk, you swear._

_You’re just flabbergasted._

_“What?” Marcus is watching you warily, a flush is starting to creep up his cheeks._

_“Did you just_ magic _my ice-cream into your hand?”_

_“Umm…”_

_“Marcus Moreno,” you fix him with an ‘I will accept no bullshit’ stare. “I had a drink. I am not drunk. I know what I saw.” You draw closer to him, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the people around you. “When were you gonna tell me that you have powers?”_

_And oh, gosh, in your enthusiasm, your voice had come out a little sharper than you’d intended, more of a hiss than a whisper. Marcus looks terrified now, running a hand through his hair so that it stands wildly on end and staring at you with wide, horrified eyes. “I - Babe, I swear, soon, I just don’t know how, or when, and oh, gosh, I’m an idiot, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, I swear, baby, I just didn’t want to make it weird -”_

_“Marc, stop.” You cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. His mouth snaps shut, his eyes still panicked and pleading as he stares at you. You force as much calm reassurance into your voice as you can imagine. “It’s cool.”_

_“It is?” he squeaks._

_“Very.”_

_“You’re not mad?”_

_“Mad?” You throw your hands in the air, huffing hysterically. “My boyfriend just told me he’s a freakin’ Jedi. We should probably talk about it, yeah, but why on earth would I be mad?”_

_He’s hugging you tight almost before you finish speaking, and you can just feel the tension bleeding from his body as he sinks into you. Apparently this secret was putting more stress on him that you’d realized._

_“You are so awesome,” he whispers into your ear._

_Melted ice-cream drips into your hair and down your back collar, but you decide that you don’t care. “Mutual awesomeness,” you clap back, meaning it wholeheartedly. Marc hums happily into your ear._

_You pull back to pin him with a Look. “But hey, when we get to the house, do you think you can summon my ID badge? I dropped it somewhere the other day.”_

_Marc laughs._

_Flash._

_Marc indicates the sprawling silver building in front of you. “Welcome to the Heroics Headquarters.” He winces a little, like he’s trying to break some big news. After last night’s revelation, you’re pretty familiar with that face._

_“This is where you’ve been interning, isn’t it?”_

_Marc rubs a sheepish hand through his hair. “Yeah.”_

_“Sweet. Show me around?”_

Flash.

_“Babe!” Marc leans forward to shout something into your ear, his chest pressed tightly to your back. His words are garbled, lost in the wind and the rumble of pipes._

_You glance at him in the review mirror. It’s impossible to know for certain, but you’re fairly sure he’d told you to slow down._

_Your gaze flickers from the speedometer to the open road, then back to Marc._

_He’s relaxed, grinning. Teasing you._

_You shoot him a wink and rip the throttle wide open._

Flash.

_It’s an accident, really, the first time you come along on a mission. You and Marc had been, uh,_ driving _downtown, when he’d gotten the call about a new threat. You’d told Marc in no uncertain terms that he would not be compromising the future of the free world just to drop you off at the apartment first._

_“I can take care of myself,” you’d promised him. “You just worry about this Honcho dude.”_

_Turns out you were right - you could take care of yourself, and you could take care of the Heroics, too._

_“You were amazing today, baby,” Marc says over dinner that night. He’s still got that awe-struck expression on his face._

_You grimace. “Not hard to be amazing in company like that. Your co-workers suck, babe.”_

_Marc flicks a shrimp at you in retaliation._

Flash.

_You’re shuffling through Marc’s sock drawer, searching for that one fluffy pair that keeps your toes perfectly toasty against the concrete floor when you stumble across the little velvet box._

_“Marc?” you squeak. All of the air has left your lungs with a huge whoosh, and your head is spinning._

_“Oh, shit,” Marc groans as he sees what you’ve found._

_You’ve never heard this man curse in your life. That thought is lost on you, though, because what you’re holding looks an awful lot like a **ring box.**_

_“I’ll just put this back,” you say slowly, reaching to tuck it away in the corner of the drawer._

_“Nope.” Marc snatches the box from your hand. He’s flustered, his cheeks a little red, but his voice is steady, if a bit rueful. “I, uh, really wanted to do this a little more formally, but hey, at least it’s a surprise, right?”_

_Oh yes, it is. Marcus Moreno dropping to one knee in the tiny bedroom that you share, crouched between the unmade bed and the open dresser drawer in just his boxers and socks is the surprise of your life._

_“Yes!” you shout before he can even get a word in edgewise._

_He huffs a startled little laugh. “Baby, you didn’t even see the ring yet.”_

_“I don’t have to,” you retort, dropping to the floor and tackling him in a bear hug._

Flash.

_“Leader of the Heroics?” you repeat, feeling your entire future shift and realign in an instant. “Okay, wow. That’s a hell of a promotion, babe.”_

_“I know.” Marc looks just as stunned as you feel._

Flash.

_“Is something wrong, baby?” Marc’s voice is soft, his gaze concerned as he looks down at you. “You’ve been quiet all day.”_

_You sigh, looking out over the waters of Lady Bird Lake. The bats are long since gone, the crowds dispersed, and you and Marc have been wandering up and down the bridge in what you’d thought was comfortable silence._

_Of course, he can see right through you._

_“I’m a little worried,” you hedge. You know you need to tell him, but you’re scared._

_“About what?”_

_Lost in your thoughts, you don’t answer him. You and Marc have talked about kids, sure, but always in that abstract, ‘one day,’ sort of way. There’d never been any sort of rush, no pressure from either of you, but this morning, ‘one day’ had abruptly turned into ‘right now.’ You’ve been feeling off all week, tired and cranky and a little emotional. Today, you’d woken up and realized that you were three days late._

_One panicked trip to Target and four tests later, there’s no denying it._

_“God, what if I’m a terrible mom?” you wonder. You’ve been married for three years now, and Marc’s just got this new promotion, but still, it feels too soon, too much, too fast._

_You aren’t ready._

_“You’ll be a great mom!” Marc answers with complete confidence, and you realize with a flood of horror that you’d voiced your concern out loud. He frowns down at you. “Why…”_

_The penny drops. Marc’s eyes swell comically large. “Baby,” he says slowly, gripping both of your hands tightly as he works his lips, searching for words. “Please tell me you’re not telling me what I think you’re telling me.”_

_“Umm.” Your brain spins in overtime, trying to parse that terrible sentence, whirring away in a desperate attempt to interpret what Marc is feeling._

_You draw a blank. “I… Yeah, Marc. I’m, umm, telling you. That.”_

_God, you can’t even say it._

_“You’re pregnant?” Marc breathes._

_“Yeah.”_

_“Right now?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You’re sure?” he asks tremulously._

_“Uh, yeah.” Your answer is sharp, a little frustrated at his apparent inability to comprehend the situation. “I think four positive tests in a single day is pretty sure.”_

_Marc presses his hand to his mouth. He stares at you in wide-eyed wonder for a long, long time._

_“Marc, say something, please.”_

_“Oh my god.” His voice breaks. “Oh my god. **Babe.”**_

_He drops to his knees in the middle of the street, gathering you in his arms and pressing his forehead to your waist. Both of you are oblivious to the people who stop and stare. “Oh my god.”_

_Automatically, you run your fingers through his hair, thinking wildly that you’ve never seen Marc at such a loss of words._

_Oh, god. You’ve broken your husband._

_“Marc?”_

_“Hi there.” Marc presses his lips to your belly and laughs. “Your mother,” he babbles into your shirt, “is the most amazing woman on the planet.” He punctuates each sentence with a gentle kiss. “And I love her more than I have words for. Kiss. “And I love you, too.” Kiss. “I love you so.” Kiss. “So.” Kiss. “Much.” Kiss. “And I cannot wait to be your dad.”_

_Your breath freezes in your chest as you are overcome with love for this man. It’s impossible to be scared now, watching him fawn over you in awestruck amazement. It hits you with dizzying clarity - Marcus Moreno is your husband, is the father of your baby. There’s not a man on this earth who is more devoted, who loves more fiercely, who is more capable of protecting your family._

_Of course it’s going to be okay._

_“So, it’s cool, then?” You manage, breathless. Relief has made you giddy and ridiculous, and better words escape you._

_“Cool?” Marc cranes his neck to gaze at your through wet lashes. He’s grinning ear to ear. “Baby, I thought something was wrong. This?” He waves at the space between you, indicating your belly and the little life that’s nestled there. His eyes are shining. “This is very, very cool.”_

_He presses another awestruck kiss to your waistline, drawing a giggle from you._

Flash.

_“Salad again?” Marcus sidles up behind you as you viciously chop the cucumber, dropping a gentle kiss on the back of your neck._

_“Yup.”_

_“Okay.” He huffs a pouty little sigh, pulling you to his chest and resting his hands over your belly, where Baby Moreno is just starting to make her presence known._

_Instinctively, you hunch over, yanking his hands down to rest on your thighs. You’d woken today feeling ridiculously self-conscious - none of your jeans will button easily, and even your baggiest shirts don’t skim over your curves quite the same. It will be different once you’re obviously pregnant, but right now, you just look fluffy, like you’ve let yourself go._

_So you’d pulled out the same comfy sweats you’ve been living in for the past week and decided on something light for lunch today, even though you know it won’t make a bit of difference._

_“Babe?” Marcus spins you gently around to face him. “What’s wrong?” His eyes are concerned, the fingers of one hand trailing down your body toward the baby._

_God, he’s been obsessed ever since you’d told him._

_You catch that wandering hand before it can reach its destination. It’s ridiculous, you know, but last thing you want to do is call his attention to the thickening of your waistline._

_Marc stiffens, looking at you in silent question._

_“I just…” Admitting it aloud is embarrassing, like you’re giving him free access to see all of your flaws and failures. Your gaze drops to your feet. “I feel gross, okay?”_

_“Gross?”_

_You glance back up at him. He’s blinking rapidly, like he’s struggling to understand._

_You grimace, shrugging at the floor, gazing ruefully at your toes. How much longer will you be able to see them?_

_It clicks suddenly, and Marc looks at you like his heart is breaking. “Baby, no.” He gathers you to his chest and holds you there for a long time, swaying you gently back and forth as he murmurs into your hair. “No, no, no, no, no.”_

_He pulls away just enough to lock you in an intense stare, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek. “I think you’re beautiful. This,” that other hand once again drifts down, ducking beneath your shirt to splay hot and firm over the gentle swell in your middle, “is beautiful.”_

_You shiver. His gaze is a tangible weight, dark and possessive. The skin of your stomach has been ridiculously sensitive lately, and there’s something protective, almost primal about the weight of his hand pressed against your womb that leaves you leaking and trembling._

_“Please don’t hide from me.”_

_“‘Kay,” you manage, swallowing past the sudden burning in your throat. Stupid hormones._

_Marc takes you in for a moment, eyes soft and searching. With a flick of his hand, the cutting board full of cucumber slices goes flying into the sink._

_“Come here,” he says before you can protest, easily lifting you so that you’re sitting on the kitchen counter. “I’m going to prove to you just how much I love this body,” he promises darkly, shucking your gigantic shirt over your head in one smooth motion.His hands go straight to your hipbones, massaging, kneading. “And all of the wonderful, amazing things that it can do.”_

_His expression turns mischievous. “And after that, we’re ordering Pad Thai.”_

Flash.

_The house is silent._

_It’s a strange way to wake up with a new baby. You glance at the clock. 3:34 am. Marc’s side of the bed is cold, the covers pulled up carefully to conserve your body heat._

_Perfect, precious man._

_Still, you slip into your dressing gown, habit and newfound maternal instinct urging you on._

_Since Missy arrived, you and Marc had worked out a system, each of you taking shifts depending on the demands of the next day. Missy is an uncommonly fussy baby, constantly colicky, it seems, and neither of you have managed a full night of sleep in the three months since you’d brought her home, no matter what arrangement you work out. It’s exhausting and beyond stressful, but the doctors had assured you over and over again that nothing is wrong, that some babies just need more attention than others._

_You pause at the living room doorway._

_Marc is cradling Missy to his bare chest. His hair is wild and unruly. He’s wearing nothing but plaid pajama bottoms and mismatched socks._

_He’s singing softly, off-key._

“I’ve been spending all my time,

just thinking ‘bout you,

I don’t know what to do,

I think I’m fallin’ for you.”

_A smile overtakes you. It’s a silly little earworm that you’d heard yesterday at the mall, catchy and sweet. Marc’s really getting into it, well, as into it as he can be with a sleeping baby curled against his shoulder, swaying to the rhythm of the song, spinning in a slow circle around the living room._

_Your heart swells in your chest. There’s no way on earth you could go back to sleep now._

“I’ve been waiting all my life

And now I found you,”

_Marc stutters as you wrap your arms around him from behind, craning his neck and shushing you desperately with his free hand._

_You shake your head at him, smiling conspiratorially. You know better than to wake Missy when she’s sleeping._

_He tugs you around so that your cheek is resting on his opposite shoulder, Missy wrapped between your bodies. You sway with him, still turning in that slow circle, just taking in the precious moment with your family as Marc continues his little performance._

“I don’t know what to do,

I think I’m fallin’ for you.”

_Flash._

_“Are you ready?”_

_“Yes!”_

_“Hmm, I don’t think you are.”_

_“I’m ready, Daddy!” Missy insists loudly. She’s chomping at the bits to go again, and you fish your phone from your pocket, hurrying to get the camera pulled up before you miss it._

_This is a moment that demands documentation._

_“Okay, then.” Marc gathers all of Missy’s hair in one hand, pulling it taught above her head. He starts a slow count-down. “One… two…”_

_Missy stamps her foot impatiently._

_“Go!”_

_Missy shrieks as she takes off spinning in place. Marc keeps his hand still as she circles, winding her ponytail into a tight twist. You watch them, completely failing to hold back a snort of amusement. This is attempt number eight at Marc’s newly minted method of fixing Missy’s hair in a bun for ballet practice. So far, all it’s accomplished is a great deal of tangles, but they both insist that with enough repetition, they’ll get it right._

_“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Marc cautions as Missy’s spins swing wider. He’s barely keeping it together, nearly doubled over laughing as he follows Missy’s head with his hand._

_Missy stumbles, crashing to the floor in a fit of breathless giggles, dark hair falling in wild clumps around her face._

Flash.

_Marc glances up as you step through the front door with your arms full of groceries. “Thank god,” he breathes, rushing to take them from your hands._

_You pause, taking in the scene. Marc is wide-eyed and nearly frantic, hair standing wildly on end. Missy is slumped at the table with her arms folded over her head. Text books and worksheets are scattered throughout the kitchen._

_“When did they change math, babe?” Marc asks you like you should know. He’s absolutely horrified._

_From the table, Missy groans._

_Flash._

_“Mom,” Missy asks as you slip out of her room._

_You pause at the doorway. You thought she’d been asleep. “What is it, baby?”_

_“How come Dad has powers and you and I don’t?” Missy’s voice is so whisper quiet it barely registers._

_All of the breath leaves your lungs with a whoosh. You thought you were ready to deal with this question, but now, looking at your daughter, all curled up and absolutely miserable in her bed, all of your carefully prepared answers vanish like smoke in the wind._

_Where is Marc when you need him?_

_“Do you remember when Mrs. Wilson pulled you out of class at the end of last year?” you ask her gently, coming sit at the edge of her bed. “For testing?”_

_Missy sits up, furrowing her brow in a way that reminds you painfully of her father. “Yeah. Why?”_

_“Do you remember why she did that?”_

_Missy rolls her eyes. “Because I’m advanced for my age and need an enriched curriculum to keep my mind engaged,” she quotes verbatim._

_You smile. That’s your girl. “And do you remember the award ceremony we went to last week for the softball team?”_

_Missy nods impatiently._

_“What award did Jessie get?”_

_“She was MVP,” Missy answers automatically. She frowns as if she sees exactly where you’re going. Smart cookie. “But being gifted and talented or good at softball, that’s not the same as having powers.” Her tone is all, ‘duh, Mom.’_

_“No,” you tell her honestly. Honesty is always the best policy with Missy. “It’s not the same. But if everybody had the same gift, they wouldn’t be gifts, now would they?”_

_“But Dad can_ move stuff with his mind. _And he gets to fight bad guys with swords.” Missy huffs, her voice almost an uncharacteristic whine. “It’s cool.”_

_“It’s very cool,” you agree. There’s nothing cooler than having a Jedi husband, you’ve known this for years now._

_Where the heck is he, anyway?_

_“But you know who else is cool?” You cup your daughter by the cheek, lowering your voice conspiratorially. Missy waits in rapt attention, dark eyes sparkling in an eager anticipation. Good. You’ve got her. “Abuela. She doesn’t fight bad guys. She trains the good guys, because she’s got a gift for it.”_

_Missy nods contemplatively. You can just see those wheels turning, analyzing, assessing._

_“Just like your dad has a gift for telekinesis, or Jessie has a gift for sports, or Miracle Guy can fly,” you continue, knowing instinctively when to press an advantage._

_Missy twists her lips into a frown. “So what’s my gift, then?”_

_You smile big. “That huge brain of yours, Missy-love.” You tap your finger on her forehead, releasing a silent sigh of relief as the gesture elicits a giggle. “It’s your own superpower, baby girl, and one day, you’re going to understand that it’s the greatest gift of all.”_

_“Yeah?” Missy asks through a yawn._

_“Absolutely,” you promise. “Now, lay down, bed bug. It’s a school night.”_

_Missy complies, sulking only half-heartedly as you kiss her goodnight. You glance up to see Marc gazing at you from the doorway. His eyes are riveted on you, face softened by a gentle smile, and you wonder how long he’s been watching._

Flash.

_Blaring sirens. The acrid scent of smoke and twisted metal._

_Marc’s face, pained, scared._

_“Be careful,” he rasps, pressing a quick kiss to your lips._

_“I always am,” you remind him. “Now go.”_

_Flash._

_Horror, the sickening dawn of cold fear as you realize that there’s only one way out. Honcho is too clever by half, and the city is burning._

_Marc can’t do this alone. You’re going to have to draw his fire._

_“I’m sorry, Marcus,” you whisper as the shuttle roars to life._

Flash.

_Blinding pain, impossible heat._

**Flash.**

“Marc!” You wake screaming, sitting straight up in bed as tears stream down your cheeks.

* * *

Marc sits bolt upright in the cot as you unlock his cell. “What-”

“Listen up,” you cut him off quickly, shoving your duffle bag into his hands. “We don’t have much time.”

Marc unzips the bag, freezing as he sees his katanas and photographs bundled carefully in a blanket. Wild, unfettered hope breaks over his expression, and you think he’s beautiful like that, eyes all lit up and glittering, hair wild from sleep.

“You remember?” he breathes hesitantly, like he hardly dares to believe it.

“Not everything,” you admit, struggling not to look him in the face as you fiddle with his suppression cuffs. They come loose with a click, and Marc shudders. “But enough.”

His smile is as blinding as the sun. “Babe,” he gasps, lurching forward like he wants to just hurl himself into your arms. He manages to hold back, though, looking for all of the world like it’s killing him to do so.

You realize he’s waiting for a sign, that he’s being careful not to overwhelm you, and something in your chest shatters as you look at him, this perfect man, your husband. 

You’re about to break his heart.

“Wait. There’s a lot you need to know, and not much time for me to explain.” You raise a hand to his chest, forcing him to keep his distance. Marc freezes at the gesture, his gaze riveted on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at the world.

You swallow hard. “I’ve disabled the security cameras and rerouted the backup generators into a feedback loop. It’s going to look like you planted a virus into the mainframe. You’ve got four minutes to clear the property before the firewalls reboot the feeds.”

Mark sucks his lips, nods firmly. “Okay,” he says, trusting you implicitly, just like that. “Let’s go.” He reaches for your hand. His grip is firm, his skin warm against yours, and you want nothing more than to follow him out those doors.

“I can’t come with you.” Your heart lurches in your chest. It might be the worst thing you’ve ever had to say.

“What?” Marc’s voice is small and breathless, as if you’ve just punched him in the solar plexus.

He looks devastated.

“Honcho’s network is so much bigger than any of us could have imagined,” you explain quickly, trying to ignore how Marc’s face falls as you speak. You’d spent hours pouring over the data, strategizing, detailing scenario after scenario, running schematics, working out kinks, searching franticly for any option, anything other than this.

There’s just no other choice.

“He’s got operatives in every major city from here to Toronto, intelligence hubs on four continents. It’s not just me, Marc. This thing runs deep.”

Marc flinches, sucking in a sharp breath, and you realize that for the first time in over a year, you’ve said his name.

You swallow hard against the emotion that is rising in your throat. Every second you spend with him is making it harder and harder to let him go. “And that’s why I’ve got to stay.”

“Baby, no,” Marc pleads. His fingers graze your shoulder, as if he’s longing to grip you in a tight embrace. “No.”

You cut him off. “I can’t hide the fact that you were here - Honcho’s going to find out soon, if he doesn’t already know, and he _will_ progress the plan, Marc. He’s after you. I realize that, now.”

You huff, resisting the urge to bite your lip, or spit, or curse. Honcho had played you like a fiddle, and you’d fallen for it. You were an idiot not have seen him for what he was before.

Instead, you nod toward the duffle that’s resting on the floor, desperate to finish this conversation. “I’ve given you all the information that I can. It’s on a flash drive, in the bag. The files are password protected - I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Marc’s gaze flickers briefly to the duffle, then back to you. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, like he’s losing you all over again. And maybe he is. You’re underplaying the danger to yourself, and if you don’t get Marc out of here soon, he’s going to realize it, too. Honcho will not take kindly to you disobeying a direct order in the first place - there was a good reason he’d warned you against engaging Marc alone. When he finds out that Marc had escaped under your watch, well, you don’t expect it to be pretty.

And that leads to a whole battery of emotions. They swamp you all at once, snarling painfully in your chest. You don’t even have all of your memories back, but already, there’s so much you want to say, so many conversations you need to have, so much left to do… but there’s no time. You’d poured as much of it as possible into the letter you’d tucked in the bottom of the bag, but now, with Marc looking at you with wet, red-rimmed eyes and a heartbroken expression, clinging to your hand like it’s a lifeline, you know that those three pages, no matter how heartfelt, could never, ever be enough.

You choke on an inhale, willing your voice to stay steady. “Again, it’s gonna look like you hacked our system, so I can’t vouch for the integrity of this information after today, but it’s the best I can do. It’s enough to get started with, anyway. “

You move a little closer, needing to impress this next part on him, and Marc takes another step in too, so that you’re craning your neck to look him in the eye, sharing the same air.

God, that’s a distraction.

“Don’t trust anybody, Marc. He’s got spies everywhere.” Again, you nod to the bag, indicating the flash drive that waits within. “You’ll see.“

“Baby,” Marc rasps, shaking his head, pulling your clasped hands up so that they rest on his breastbone.

Your resolve wavers again at the rawness of his voice. “Somebody’s got to take this apart from the inside, Marc, or we’re all toast.” You swallow hard. Why is it so hard to relay all of this information, information that you’d spent hours gathering and preparing and rehearsing? “And it’s got to be me. I’ve got top level clearance. Even if we could get place a different spy, they would never have access to the kind of information that I do here. And even if we take out Honcho tomorrow, someone else will rise up to fill the void, and I won’t be as well placed to gather intel…”

Your voice shudders, and you look to your feet, suddenly unable to meet Marc’s gaze. “I might not have access to them, like I do… like I do him.”

Marc is there in an instant, resting his free hand on your cheek and tilting your face up to look him in the eye. “Has he hurt you?” he asks intently, scanning you over carefully as if searching for a sign. One finger comes up to gently trace the gnarled edges of your scar.

You suppress a shudder. There’s no bitterness, no accusation in his tone, nothing but careful concern in his gaze.

“No,” you choke, suddenly overwhelmed with love for this man. You do not deserve him. “He hasn’t.”

Crap, are you crying? Yes, you’re crying.

“He’s just not you.”

Marc’s expression shatters and you rush to him without a thought, desperate to offer whatever comfort you can. He gasps as your bodies meet. It’s like muscle memory, the way you slot together, your jaw at the hollow of Marc’s throat, his stubble scratching your cheek, his nose buried in your hair. Marc inhales sharply, his palms running down your shoulders and back and thighs and up again. You get the sense that he’s cataloguing you, filing away the memory of how you look and feel and smell and sound so that he can relive it again, and again, and again.

“Come with me, baby.” Marc’s hands are curling around the back of your neck, long fingers threading into your hair. He pulls away just far enough to look at you in wide-eyed desperation.

“I can’t.”

“You have to.” His voice is breaking now.

Oh, god, you’d known this was going to be hard, but now, you’re not sure if you have the strength to do it. “Do you know how many lives are at stake in the next three minutes?” you hiss, reminding yourself as much as him.

“You’re my life,” Marc breathes hoarsely. You don’t think he’d meant to say that out loud.

“Marc, please.” It’s killing you, begging him to leave you here, but it’s the only way to keep him safe, to keep Missy safe. If Honcho wins, you will lose your family - it’s an absolute certainty. The families of all of the Heroics are targets, even the kids. “Please.“ You drag him down to you, forcing yourself to meet those dark eyes. “You know it’s the right thing.”

“I don’t want to do the right thing,” Marc confesses brokenly.

“But you’re going to,” you counter sharply. Marc has always been the best of you, keeping you grounded, helping you find your way. After eighteen years, it’s time you return the favor. “Because you’re Marcus Moreno, and that’s what you do.”

He nods sharply, grim and determined and heartbroken, and against your better judgement, you kiss him. He crashes his lips into yours with a quiet little whine, deepening the kiss into a slow, gentle exploration, mapping you with his lips and tongue. You cut him off far before either of you are ready, painfully aware that time is ticking away.

“Marc.”

He pulls back just enough to give you a feverish, panicked glance, and then his body is swallowing yours again as he presses reverent little kisses to your forehead, to each of your eyelids, to your cheeks, to your nose. Even more memories shake loose at each brush of his lips against your skin - _red-faced, doubled over laughter, stolen dances in the rain, soft moments in the morning, tickle wars on the sofa, your second anniversary…_

Eyes drifting shut under the onslaught, you allow your body to melt into his, just for a moment.

Marc presses your foreheads together. “I love you,” he whispers fiercely.

A full body tremor runs through you at the confession. “I know,” you answer, pushing as much sincerity and meaning into the words as you can. “I know you do, Marc. _I know.”_

Grief and hope mingle devastatingly in his expression, the tears that have been brimming in his eyes now running feely down his cheeks. For just a second, you catch a glimpse of what losing you has done to him, and you hate yourself for it.

You channel all of that regret and rage into determination. “That’s why you’ve got to go, baby.” His breath hitches at the pet name, half hysterical giggle, half sob.

Catching his face between your hands, you thumb away his tears, force him to look you in the eye. “You’ve got to go now, do you understand me?”

Marc’s eyes drift shut in a pained wince, the darkness of his lashes stark against pale skin. He nods against your palm, and when he looks at you, his eyes glittering with hope and determination.

“Will I see you again?”

You’re reminded sharply of your first real date, of _Marc, younger and skinnier and dressed to the nines, hope shining bright from behind his glasses._

“Yes,” you answer. It’s a promise.

“Baby-” he starts, is cut off by the shrill beeping of your watch.

“Go, Marc!” You shove him hard in the chest, probably harder than you should. He’s got 90 seconds to clear security or it’s over for both of you. “Go!”

Marc goes.

**Author's Note:**

> notes/author’s confessions:  
> Don’t kill me, don’t kill me! Reader absolutely gets all of her memories back, and while she’s busy taking out Honcho, she writes letters to Marc, one letter every day. In them, she details what she remembers about Marc and their relationship, why she misses him, what she wants them to do together once they’re finally reunited. It’s a long, emotional journey, but it ends with her falling so much deeper in love with Marc than she could have possibly been before. Looking back, she counts herself lucky - how many women get to fall in love with their husbands twice? The separation is hard on both of them, but when they come back together, life is so, so good. Marc cherishes those letters, reading them and rereading them until the pages are worn and creased, and there are many hugs and tears and kisses, and life is perfect from then on. This precious little family deserves nothing less. No more angst, no more danger, no more sadness, just love.
> 
> Marc absolutely tells Missy about her mom. He debates keeping it a secret just for a split second, but he’s smart enough to know, too, that with Missy, honesty is always the best policy.
> 
> You use the kids as a means of communication. It’s something you don’t dare do it often, only when you’ve got big news to pass on, but Wheels makes an excellent messenger, and Honcho frequently underestimates and overlooks the kiddos. You fees guilty about it, but you do it anyway. Ultimately, the kids are integral in taking Honcho down.  
> It’s another year and a half before you’re able to come home full time. Missy is thirteen and straight sass, Marc is overworked and underpaid and stressed as hell. All three of you need each other. 
> 
> Missy realizing that the top level operative that she’s been in communication with for the past year is actually her mother is absolutely priceless, and you wouldn’t miss that gobsmacked face for the world.
> 
> Abuela doesn’t even try to hide her tears. She showers your face with kisses, slaps you with her shawl, and makes you swear up and down to never to leave them alone again.
> 
> You renew your vows in the San Jaun mountains. This time, Missy takes the photos, and you all three jump in the lake. It’s perfect.
> 
> It takes no convincing at all for Marc to retire permanently from Hero work. Missy decides that she doesn’t miss it, either. You sell your house and move to Colorado full time. Marc takes a desk job at a small start-up company, you write children’s novels with Missy’s careful input, and Missy decides she wants to pursue a career in criminal justice. That gives Marc a little pause, but you convince him to let it go - there’s plenty of time for Missy to change her mind, and you’ll support her wholeheartedly no matter what she eventually decides. 
> 
> The three of you never look back.
> 
> You guys have all seen that one youtube video of a dad fixing his daughter’s hair, right? It just struck me as such a Marc thing to do. 
> 
> I clearly have zero understanding of computers and security systems. Feedback and advice is appreciated, obviously.
> 
> For reference a black-eyed susan is just a tiny little sunflower. They’re native pretty much everywhere, but I associate them with Texas, where they’re almost a weed.
> 
> Colbie Caillat's "Falling For You" came out right around the time that Missy was born. Yes, I have Feelings.
> 
> Yes, reader rides a motorcycle, and yes, Marc rides bitch. I’m not sorry. I imagine them taking a trip to Twisted Sisters every October. You can pry this headcanon from my cold dead hands. 
> 
> Come hang out on tumblr @disgruntledspacedad.

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  * [I'll Meet You There](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28900671) by [OneLastBreath_Writes (M3gan15xo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M3gan15xo/pseuds/OneLastBreath_Writes)




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